


Sad Boy Sunday

by RooftopRush



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A short piece about Keiths cry routine, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Embracing the bad days, Gen, ISTP, Introspection, Kind of a sad piece not gonna lie, References to Depression, fuck capitalism, introspective, no beta we die like morons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 16:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21919069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RooftopRush/pseuds/RooftopRush
Summary: And so the tears came, and Keith let them fall. Every hour, on every Sunday.A short, introspective piece about an involuntary cry routine, and Keith embracing his bad days.Inspired by Zac Fredrickson, an ISTP on Episode 30 of When Myers Met Briggs.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Sad Boy Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Knowledge of Myers briggs, or MBTI not needed for reading.

  
Every day after work, the first thing Keith did was drive home, shower, sleep and eat. And every morning following he would get up, get dressed, pack his lunch, and drive to work. And every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday he would do this routine. To exhausted to come home and do more, and too tired in the morning to push himself towards anything else but the bare essentials. 

And then came Sunday. 

Sunday was his first day off out of the week, with Monday following. But Sunday never felt like a day off. 

Maybe it was the culture of the working class in America. Maybe it was a child's naive idea he took too seriously, but for as long as Keith could remember, days off were supposed to be fun. They were supposed to be days that were free for you to do whatever you wanted, unhindered by the rest of the world. And Sundays could never be like that. 

Because while work and the rest of the world were no longer keeping him financially tied down into his job, into movement and sweat and labor and cooperation with coworkers, the lasting stress from the rigorous eat, work, shower, sleep, repeat cycle infused in him stress and anxiety and depression, in exchange for taking from him his hope, his energy, his optimism and his spirit. 

And so on Sunday, Keith never had fun. He never really enjoyed himself, his hobbies or his time. He never went out and did the things he dreamed about when he had the energy to dream, or made progress on personal and impersonal projects, goals, creative or otherwise. His body would always be too leaden to move, too heavy with sorrows and stresses. No.

On Sunday, Keith felt the weight of all the pain and stress of the week prior to it, and cried. 

Rarely did he sob, simper or bawl. The tears came passively, through the cage of his subconscious holding his heart. Forever kept to keep the intensity of his emotions down, but never quite succeeding. For whenever it came to a boil, whenever it was too much, whenever the cup filled over or the pressure grew too much, the tank would crack, and the tears would come spilling out. 

It never happened as soon as Keith woke up. It was always something little, like his favorite song playing while he drove. Or thinking of his favorite persons happy reaction. He would find himself smiling, just at a mere thought. At an innocent idea. A simple, small joy, and then his vision would fog. And there would be that teeny, hollowed, empty, fragile feeling in his chest. Bouncing between his sternum, heart and gut. His smile would falter and his lips would tremble, and finally his vision would fog. Eyes welling up with warm tears, sometimes spilling, sometimes not. And then an hour or so would pass, and it would happen again. 

Maybe he might think of his favorite joke. Maybe he might laugh at an unexpected observation, finding it funny even though it really wasn’t all that humorous. Maybe he would see a dog he thought was sweet, and remember how much he loved them. Perhaps he’d remember a friend, and think of them fondly. 

It took nothing at all, and the tears would come. 

They were soft, little moments. Easily concealed if you weren’t looking for a small wipe of the wrist, or a turn of the head. Keith never liked making a public scene of himself, but his emotions were much too volatile and intense to be designated to certain places. His feelings were as wild and spontaneous as he was, and they came whether Keith preferred them to or not. 

As he grew he had come to accept this trait of his. No longer feeling the shame or anxiety of making a scene, and instead letting it happen whenever it came. The quieter and more comfortable he was, the less attention it would draw anyway. 

So if ever Keith went out, or did much of anything on Sunday, he made the most of his teary eyes and aching heart. 

He visited isolated, quiet places. The nature reserves that few visited too little, the public parks on the hours when no one would bring their children. Often he would visit the cemetery, and greet his father. And there too, the tears came. 

After the day had passed, he would settle inside. His body satisfied with the regulation of his heart, and mind peaceful from a little freedom. On Monday he would finally feel rested, rejuvenated, and rushing to do the things he liked to enjoy, while he could still enjoy them, before his work week began anew. 

But before then, he had to rest. To give his heart the vent it needed to heal, and regulate the constant unruly mess of emotions always tumbling inside of him, turned up to eleven inside capitalism's pressure cooker. 

And so the tears came, and Keith let them fall. Every hour, on every Sunday. 

**Author's Note:**

> In hindsight, the podcast inspired by this was actually a lot happier than this fic makes it out to be. I would highly recommend listening to it if you're into learning about interesting people and psychology. 
> 
> Not expecting this to get comments but any and all would really make my day! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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